I have just returned from my semi-annual exercise in humiliation at the hands of my dentist’s dental assistant. You see, I know that I am supposed to floss my teeth twelve times a day, but I just can’t seem to get myself in the habit. Call me shy, but I just can’t seem to muster the wherewithal to break out the dental floss and start scrubbing between my teeth in the middle of a meeting with my most important client.
So twice a year, I subject myself to the following barrage of questions from the dental assistant. Naturally, this dialogue occurs while she is flossing my teeth for me.
Assistant: So, have we been flossing our teeth?
Me: Yeessss.
Assistant: How often? Twelve times a day?
Me: Well, no, not quite.
Assistant: Well then, once per day perhaps?
Me: Well, no, maybe once or twice every other week…or month.
Assistant: [irritably] Your gums are bleeding.
Of course my gums are bleeding. This is because the assistant is now drawing what feels like razor wire back and forth between my teeth at speeds approaching that of commercial jet liners.
My gums also bleed when the assistant takes the iron hook that Bill Cosby went on and on about to dig out several months of sour cream-and-onion, Bar-B-Q, and rippled potato chip residue from the extremely sensitive area where my gums meet my teeth.
But I have to give dentists and their assistants credit where credit is due. Dentistry is a thankless profession that I would want no part of. I mean, just look at the unpleasant list of problems they have to deal with on a day-to-day basis. Tooth decay, gum disease, plaque, horrible breath, people in general, kids in particular.
When I was attending University, I developed a pretty good relationship with a dentist, whom I shall call Dr. Frank. For some reason, Dr. Frank always called me Mike. “Mike,” he would say, “any major tooth traumas I need to know about of sufficient magnitude requiring enough dental work for me to plan my retirement around?” He was always kidding around like this.
He used to wear little square glasses in front of his regular glasses so that I always got to see what I looked like from an insect’s perspective.
My last visit with Dr. Frank before I left town to pursue higher education in Hamilton was a truly memorable event. There I was in the “chair” with several sharp implements protruding from my mouth being manipulated with the skilled precision of a dental professional.
Then, all of a sudden Dr. Frank launches into a soliloquy that went something like this. “Mike, I don’t know why children are afraid of me. I’m a nice guy. I’m not trying to scare people. I run an honest business in an upright profession. It really bothers me that kids are scared of me. I’m not out to hurt anybody on purpose.”
All this why he is probing around my teeth with sharp implements and a drill that goes “whrrrrr” in a high-pitched menacing tone. I would have to think that sitting in your dentist’s chair while he is undergoing a mental breakdown has to rate pretty highly on most people’s lists of situations they would not like to find themselves in.
Anyway, I felt bad for Dr. Frank, but was nonetheless happy to retreat in a backwards motion from the “chair” when we were done. I hope he is doing well.
Fast forward back to the present.
My gums have finally stopped bleeding. I have a brand new toothbrush and an 800 foot roll of dental floss that ought to last about two weeks at twelve times per day. The one thing I really hate about flossing is that it cuts off the blood circulation to your fingertips when you wrap the floss around them.
So, if you’re wondering who that person is with bleeding gums and blue fingertips, it’s just me.
Nick Burn is a freelance writer, husband, father of three, engineer, teacher, and webmaster for the Canadian Catholic Information Network. In his spare time (hah!), he enjoys camping, skiing and reading.
